


get my love caught

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 1980s, 1989, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Billy Hargrove Lives, Bisexual Disaster Steve Harrington, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Blow Jobs, Character Study, Chicago (City), Coffee, Coming Out, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Gay Billy Hargrove, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Hopeful Ending, Intercrural Sex, Light Angst, M/M, Making Out, Oral Sex, Post-Season/Series 02, Self-Esteem Issues, That AU Where Steve Moves Away After Season Two, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24295501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: "Listen," Hargrove says. The tone has Steve reflexively snapping to attention. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee, or, like, a hot beverage of your choice?"Steve should say no. He's about to say no.He doesn't say no.(Or, Steve and Billy meet again, after four years.)
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 32
Kudos: 297





	get my love caught

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettyboyporter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyboyporter/gifts).



> **Happy birthday, Tracey!** Imma get emotional for a mushy second here to say that when I first got into Harringrove I knew literally no one for months and months, and you were one of the first people I ever met through this fandom. You've always been the kindest person, deserving only of good things. I wasn't sure what to write you as a gift, but I remembered you'd once said you too liked intercrural in your Harringrove (WINK WINK NUDGE NUDGE). Also, I figured pre-S3 AU fic (feels like a different time, really) would be the way to go here. IDEK, I hope this works for you somehow!
> 
> It's already the 21st over here, but I'm hoping time zones will work in my favour this time around.
> 
> Title from Paula Abdul's "Straight Up". (This is set in 1989, and it felt poignant or some shit.)

It's been four years when they eventually end up running into each other on the East Side of Chicago. It's a Tuesday, and Steve's looking out onto Belmont Harbor, when Billy Hargrove just, like, _walks up to him_. Steve's out walking his elderly neighbour's Pomeranian, for fuck's sake.

"Harrington?" he calls out, all loud and unsubtle. It's an early evening in May, the sun only just turning orange on the horizon. Steve's not expecting anything good to come from this, except he's an adult now, they both are, and high school and Hawkins and all that bullshit are a long time in the past, four fucking years in fact.

"Hargrove," he says back. All polite. He's an adult. He's turning twenty-three later this year, but he's just happened upon Billy Hargrove, or the other way around, or _whatever_. There's never not going to be a part of him whose hackles won't get raised in his presence, he muses.

It's mortifying on too many levels to have to actually acknowledge to himself that Hargrove _looks good_. Despite everything. In spite of everything. It's downright infuriating, in fact. Like, Steve's quietly furious.

Hargrove's always looked good back then, all bad boy charisma and built beyond anything Steve had seen outside of the movies. Johnny Lawrence and Rob Lowe all rolled into one. Even more so now, to Steve's utter annoyance. But he's no longer a teenager with a chip on his shoulder. He's very much an adult now, too, with his hair less metal and more flower child or some shit. He's got it in a long blond plait running down his back, and Steve _wants_ to hate it, but the so-called fury lacks any and all passion, easily dissipating under the weight of four years and about two hundred miles. Hawkins for the two of them is a long time ago.

Irritation, however, is valid, he thinks. And, most irritatingly, Steve can't help but notice Hargrove's stretching out the seams of his long-sleeved tee even more so than he used to back when Steve used to talk himself into ignoring that sort of thing. His eyelashes frame his eyes just the same way they did when he was seventeen and kicking Steve's ass.

It's unfair, is what it is.

"How you been, man?" Hargrove's asking around a soft grin Steve's never seen before.

And how's _Steve_ been? He remembers stuffing his high school graduation diploma in the Beamer's glove compartment and as many essentials as would fit into the trunk and backseat before, essentially, running away from his hometown four years ago. His parents took a little over six months to cut him off, which was more than Steve had counted on. He now lives in a comfortable studio apartment on a street with no less than seven different rainbow flags adorning it.

He doesn't say all that, instead settling on, "Good, good." And Billy's like, "Me, too." Even though Steve didn't ask. Was it implied? It was probably implied that he'd ask. Polite Steve Harrington would ask.

"Yeah?" It's flat, but sounds generically interested enough to pass muster.

"You know. Came down to look for a place before the graduate rush really kicks off."

There's something like excitement in the way he says it, as if just being a part of the _graduate rush_ would be interesting all on its own, much less beating it. Moreover, Steve's shocked at not finding any of the default seething anger he expected to linger underneath anything which comes out of _Hargrove's_ mouth, which, once Steve gives it a second thought, maybe he shouldn't have readily assumed. It's been four years for Hargrove, too, in more ways than one.

"Oh?" His neighbour's dog is now sniffing in the general direction of a very enticing tree. Steve holds the leash taut and plants his feet.

"Listen," Hargrove says. The tone has Steve reflexively snapping to attention. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee, or, like, a hot beverage of your choice?"

Steve should say no. He's about to say no.

He doesn't say no.

They _could_ get shitty coffee in the city, Blitzy the Pomeranian watching them from the sidewalk with its leash tied to a stoop while they overpay for the local brew. But Steve's always been a bit of a moron, definitely not the sharpest tool in the shed, so he hurries along to drop off the dog at his neighbour's, Hargrove following along good-naturedly.

It's increasingly off-putting and weird, but whenever Steve peeks Hargrove's way, he always looks just as unconcerned as he's been the entire time since running into each other, and maybe even increasingly amused the more time they spend in each other's company on the way to Steve's place.

Honestly, he can't even begin to imagine why Hargrove would find him of all people amusing, but it doesn't seem like Steve's the butt of the joke, either. Quite the opposite, in fact, as if Steve's already in on it, and Hargrove's simply waiting for him to laugh along. To catch up. Huh. He actually shakes his head at that thought, hair falling across his forehead that he has to brush away impatiently, but Hargrove doesn't seem to notice.

Besides, he'd anticipated some pretty unambiguous bloodshed. So this? Definitely an improvement over senior year.

They chat about the weather in Chicago. Of all things. It's astoundingly civil. Surprisingly normal. Steve's more than a little suspicious, and becoming increasingly more so the closer they get to rounding the corner onto his street.

It's so innocuous Steve suspects he's not actually fully grasping the scope of the conversation, as if there are some abstract cues he's missing or failing to read between the lines to some hidden insult. Admittedly, there's always the chance he's not actually conscious at all. If it's a dream, it's not the weirdest he's ever had involving Billy Hargrove.

They drop off the dog and Steve successfully avoids making small talk with his neighbour. His studio is another two floors up, so they take the stairs at a leisurely pace. It's all so very harmless Steve is starting to get a headache overthinking every word they're saying, every step they take.

"Didn't think we'd run into each other like this," he mutters. He's not sure if he meant to say it out loud or not. He's not sure what his voice is doing.

He hears Hargrove sighing behind him, a weary sound, confusedly prolonged, but which Steve chooses to straight-up ignore. They've reached Steve's front door without running into any of his other neighbours, his floor seemingly deserted. The sound of Steve's keys jangling in his palm has never been this loud. Like thunder. Like drums. Like his heart beating out of his chest.

"Yeah, I was a dick in high school." Keeps his words soft. "Sorry about that." Soft enough Steve can't get a read on his tone other than utter sincerity. Which can't possibly be _right_. Can't possibly be all there is to it.

Thing is, he sounds as if he actually means it. Furthermore, as if Steve believing him matters somehow. Like, the words are casual, should be casual, but. Whatever. Steve's probably being an idiot about it, reading too much into it. He tends to do that a lot. Some things never change.

"It's fine, man," he says back. Unconcerned. He sounds bored, actually. He's anything but bored, but he hasn't quite been able to pull off aloof since early his senior year. Not since the night he got his ass kicked royally and set fire to a monster alongside a bunch of thirteen-year-olds.

"Is it?" Hargrove asks. Steve doesn't have an answer to that; he doesn't have an answer to a lot of things.

Hargrove drops it. Or doesn't push. Or, much more likely, he doesn't really care. Steve opens his front door and leads the way inside.

If Hargrove's disappointed at the size of his place, Steve doesn't want to have visual confirmation. He leads the way into his living room slash kitchen without a backwards glance. If this were a bigger place there'd be enough space to drag a dining room situation into the equation, but Steve's lucky if he manages to turn around from the stove to the couch without bumping into the furniture and dropping his pitiful cooking most days.

On his way to the kitchen he waves in the general direction of the couch, the second-hand record player in the corner, the potted plant, the exposed concrete walls that are more an eyesore than inspiring as far as he's concerned.

"Make yourself comfortable," he says with much more cheerfulness than he has any reason to be feeling. Turns away, almost saying, _Have at it._

He doesn't ever, like, _entertain_. He promised coffee, though, so he busies himself with making some, leaves Hargrove to fend for himself, only mildly antsy about it.

Coffee. Right. His kitchen doesn't have— Well, _he_ doesn't— He never has the _good roast_ , like what his father used to insist on; only plain old Folgers at four dollars for the big thirty-one-ounce can. As he's spooning in a hearty amount he reconsiders at least three times, because strong _cheap_ coffee is perhaps worse than weak cheap coffee.

He glances over his shoulder at Hargrove reclining on his couch. He stares at the back of his head for far too long before realising he's stopped spooning in coffee grounds, hand hovering a little shakily in midair. Steve blushes, just considering the inevitable embarrassment of getting caught staring at his high school rival lounging in his living room four years on.

Hargrove can't be completely ignorant about what Steve's neighbourhood is like. For all of his faults, of which Steve remembers many, the guy was never stupid. Kind of the opposite, in fact. Graduated high school a year early even. Steve was always kind of the stupid one. A bit of a moron. The one uselessly overthinking everything before leaping like a fool anyway. The teaspoon clacks against the inside rim of the coffee tin, metal against metal, dissonant. He turns quickly back to it and his task, mechanically efficient.

He commits to the strong cheap coffee and to pouring out a healthy mug once he's done making it. Believes in removing reasons Hargrove might ask for a refill, believes in removing excuses to ask him to stay longer and definitely believes in making this as quick and painless as humanly possible.

So Steve busies himself with making shitty coffee while just a few feet behind him Billy Hargrove checks out his place. It's a one-bedroom, in that it's open-floor and his bed is behind a room divider. His bookshelves are helplessly under-populated, and the few books Steve possesses are shitty finds he doesn't much like and which no one has heard of or has cared enough to find out more about. He's low-key embarrassed about how sparse it all is. Keeps the fancy dictionary under the bed and out of sight for similar and maybe even worse reasons.

No one's asked about any of it, so he's never, like, apologised, but it's a knot in his throat right now to do so unprompted. He vividly remembers Hargrove being an A student to Steve's barely passing grades. That is, when he even deigned to show up to class enough to pass, skipping school a bit of a bad habit by the end there. Graduating on time had been a struggle.

"Never heard of this one." It's soft, but Steve's place is small and unevenly furnished. Sound travels oddly.

He turns around once more, only to find Hargrove off the couch and now standing by the storage shelf holding the record player, only he's fingering the spine of one of the books on the shelf hanging above it. Steve flushes, ears hot.

"I'm not—" he starts, impulsive. Consequently, he doesn't have a follow-up that isn't, _I'm not the type of person who reads._ However much he'd like to be the smart one, he's been anything but his entire life. He bites the inside of his cheek. Says, "Coffee's almost done," instead. There's hardly any waver in his voice.

Hargrove nods absently, and Steve turns back around to fiddle with the coffee maker, movements quick and efficient.

Once the earthy scent of coffee and the bubbling of percolating liquid fill the apartment, he brings out two clean mugs, and then stares at them wondering what else people put in their coffee. Milk and sugar, and probably some sort of cookie-biscuit thing on the side. He makes a motion, as if to reach out and. What? Pluck them out of thin air?

Realising he hasn't got, well, _any_ of those in his kitchen isn't much of a shock. In fact, his fridge is never stocked. He ran out of sugar two weeks back, and had simply never gotten around to buying more. He's never bought _biscuits_ in his life.

He fiddles with the pepper and salt shakers residing on the counter in front of him. He glances down to see his hands are shaking only slightly. The coffee maker is whistling. Temples throbbing, he wonders if he could slip out unnoticed to buy milk and return unobserved. Or not return at all until Hargrove's left the building, bewildered at that crackpot Steve Harrington and his weirdo antics, even stranger than the shit he used to pull in high school.

"Fleetwood Mac, man. This is as excellent as it gets." Then, "Hello? Space cadet? Earth to Steve Harrington!"

Steve jumps, and turns suddenly. Almost a full one-eighty before he can stop himself. "What?" Comes out shaky.

"You still with me?" Hargrove asks, looking vaguely amused, still standing by the shelf, one hand casually dragging across the wood, the other holding a worn album jacket.

Steve nods, all of a sudden too warm. Embarrassed for spacing out. People who invite other people into their homes should probably not zone out in their own kitchens while making low-grade coffee.

"Do you mind?" Head tilted. Quirk at the left-hand corner of his mouth oddly familiar. A half-smile Steve's never had aimed at him.

"Huh?" It's like they're having two very different conversations. In actuality, they're not having any sort of conversation, because Steve's head is somewhere else entirely, it seems.

It clicks then that Hargrove means the record he's still holding. "Sure." Then Steve impulsively says, "I don't have milk."

Uh, honesty is the best policy when your brain has no filter, it seems. He leaves out the part about the biscuit, however. Hargrove probably wasn't even expecting one, but maybe he did want milk. Or sugar. Steve could say he always takes his black. That's, like, manly and shit, he's pretty sure.

"It's fine," Hargrove says. What does _that_ mean?

"That's fine. I mean, OK," he says back, his face warming up instantly along the bridge of his nose and down his cheeks. Steve Harrington has never been a person in full possession of excellent comebacks, but the quality must have genuinely sunk if this is the material he's choosing to go with here.

He follows that up with, "Coffee's getting cold." It's not. He's just poured it out. It doesn't even make sense to say that.

He half turns to the counter, as if to ascertain that, indeed, cold coffee is on the horizon, better hurry. The liquid is too dark in the mugs, but it's steaming, obviously hot.

"Is that for me?" he hears Hargrove ask from much closer than before. Didn't hear his steps on the greying carpet which covers almost the entirety of his floors.

"Sure." Says it almost welcomingly.

And beneath the surface of politeness there's the part of Steve that's utterly flabbergasted about Billy Hargrove's being in his kitchen, the very idea of it disturbing on levels Steve can't even fully process. Senior year haunting him all over again.

Warmth at his back just a few moments later, not touching at all, just a presence, then Hargrove snakes his arm by Steve's waist and around it to gingerly reach for the steaming mug, unhurried, barely shifting the air around the both of them. Steve manages to hold in a sound, but it's a close thing.

Hargrove must hear it because he doesn't actually take the mug. Or make contact. Instead, he steps away, putting a decently large amount of space between them, out of Steve's personal space, and Steve feels like he can finally breathe again.

Exhaling heavily, he turns to the side and picks up the mug meant for Hargrove, narrowly avoiding spilling any of the hot liquid, and goes to offer it to him. Only Hargrove's not only out of Steve's space already, but entirely out of the kitchen, hovering by his shelves again, half-facing Steve, maybe considering putting on a record after all. Or something else entirely. Steve can't read his expression.

Like an echo in his head, Steve considers asking him to— What? Leave? Get out? _Get out. Get out. Get out._ A clarity sort of like that which came about the moment he was free of Hawkins, Indiana, stops the words dead in his throat. He exhales. At that, Hargrove looks up, maybe pityingly, maybe not. Regardless of the angle, Steve can't figure out his expression.

Instead, he looks at the couch, and something in his eyes must read as him indicating Hargrove should take a seat again. The record he'd been holding earlier is on the coffee table, casually discarded. Steve picks up his own mug, then carries both of them over to it.

He's going to drink his coffee. He's not going to be rude about it. One cup of coffee. That's it, and then he can very politely encourage Hargrove to leave of his own free will.

When Hargrove reaches forward for the proffered mug, his tee hangs off him in the front just enough to _hint_. The inkling of a promise of more, the tops of his pecs or the shadows of his nipples, were the shirt looser. As it is, Steve only gets his collarbones, not even his to have at all.

"Thanks," he says between soft puffs of breath over the rim. And he does sound thankful. Not like an asshole ready to quip defensively. Not that anymore. Not from the casual quirk of his lips and the smooth, easy way he carries himself.

They drink their coffee in silence. The slow silence between people who never used to be friends now acting pointedly civil hangs heavily in the space between them, makes the air thick and soupy. Among the city clutter of his tiny apartment, Steve has graduated from vaguely polite to overly courteous.

If Hargrove had indicated he'd never drink coffee without milk, Steve... doesn't know what he would have realistically done. Maybe gone out to buy some after all. Knock on someone's door to idiotically borrow a cup. It's a weird realisation to have.

The sort of guys he usually has over would never expect this and Steve wouldn't offer. It's wild. It messes with Steve's head.

All the while Steve's waiting for Hargrove to explain that he has to motor, that he's got a big date waiting for him, an apartment in the city he needs to view, any excuse to make this less awkward than an abrupt exit could turn into.

Steve doesn't stare at his front door. It's a conscious effort, probably tangible in the air around them. He wonders how much of it Hargrove can tell. That Steve wants to turn around and walk out himself if only to make it easier on himself, on them both.

Lowering his mug slowly, almost carefully, Hargrove tells him, "You never used to be scared. Back in high school. You should have been, but you never were. You look terrified right now."

Steve blinks owlishly. He doesn't have anything even remotely approaching a reply to that. In fact, he's still processing through the words. Lowers his mug to the table so he doesn't drop it.

He wants to ask, _What does that mean? What does any of this mean?_

"OK?"

Then Hargrove sort of just laughs. Not meanly. It's the sort of laugh where, were Steve to have any idea what was going on, he'd join in. Companionable, that's what it is. As if Hargrove believes Steve's caught up already. Steve hasn't, not by a long shot.

It then feels all right for him to ask, "What's funny?"

"Nothing." Then, "You." And before Steve can protest, "I'm not making fun or whatever. It's just wild, man."

"I'm sorry," Steve says, impulsive. Doesn't think the words through at all. What's he even sorry for?

They seem to be on the same page _there_. "Why?"

Steve doesn't have an answer for that. But Hargrove doesn't push. He raises his mug to slowly sip from it, blowing on it absently a couple of times, but generally seemingly satisfied with his coffee and with sitting right where he is.

Steve's forgotten how to make small talk. At least, anything that doesn't make him sound vaguely constipated and, like, deranged. Or like he's trying to get laid. Hargrove would probably not appreciate the latter. Silence is the best option, and probably the only one outside of utter embarrassment. He fiddles with the handle of his mug for something to do while Hargrove finishes his drink.

"So are you seeing anyone?" he finally manages to ask, some sort of weird and Upside-Down levels of deranged combination of everything he feared most his brain would sprout out, though it luckily does not come out like he's making a pass, Jesus Christ.

Again, there seems to be either a lack of a filtering system to what comes out of his mouth, or he's hallucinating it all. This is the unlikeliest thing he'd ever have asked the Billy Hargrove of four years ago, but this one seems to take it in stride.

"Nah. Got out of a serious thing a few months back. Haven't really met anyone worth going for since." He says it pointedly. Steve's maybe missing something between the lines, but that's hardly a big change for him.

"Oh, yeah? Was she the one who got away?"

What are words? What is Steve's life?

"Not so much, no. He was great, but sometimes things just don't work out."

Steve's brain does something odd right then. It must be some sort of hiccup or brain fart or more with the hallucinating. Hargrove's looking at him cautiously. It's unnerving.

"Oh?" By far the worst thing he's ever said to anyone ever. Like, he stops. Just stops. Doesn't know where to even start adding to that to make it less awkward, so he doesn't. Hargrove's still _looking_ at him. Staring.

"Now you just seem like you're gonna bolt. Like, it's your place, man. I can make like a tree if you want me gone..." Hargrove trails off.

In what must be the most awkwardly obvious way Steve clears his throat. His face heats up and his stomach travels somewhere to the region of his esophagus before he swallows it all down and blinks stupidly. He's kind of a dumbass.

"Um." Then, "How did—?"

Hargrove, thankfully, doesn't let him finish his question. It's pretty obvious the direction it was going in anyway, Steve thinks, what he's asking here, which, for the record, he's fully aware is intrusive. They're not friends. They're not anything.

"Kind of figured it out when I was fifteen and I couldn't get it up for the most popular girl at my old high school, back before Indiana."

Point blank. Just like that. Like it's that easy.

"Oh." Not a question. There's nothing to ask.

He bites at his lips absently in the moments after, and Steve kind of can't stop staring. "Yeah." Like he's answering a question Steve actually asked.

Then, "High school was a fucked-up time in general."

Almost without his control Steve snorts. This is ridiculous.

"Yeah, no, it was pretty bad," he croaks out. Understatement. "You didn't make it easy." It's the most charitable assessment of their whatever it was, yet Hargrove cocks his head and blinks slowly. "We got into it pretty badly," Steve clarifies, although he feels like he shouldn't have to.

Realisation finally dawns on Hargrove after a long moment. "I don't remember what it was even about," he says, slowly shaking his head as if he's shaking the memories loose. "Dude, I would have— Any excuse to mess you up, I would have found it."

"You beat the shit out of me."

"Shit, I did, didn't I?"

But it's not said lightly; more like the spark to some sort of decision. Steve can see it plainly on his face, something like serenity, and probably words about to follow.

Steve beats him to it. "Yeah, no shit. What, you got old real fast and forgot all about it?"

What's funny in a way that's very far from hilarious is how he's letting anger fuel him, yet it's unexpectedly only about fifty percent about the past. Steve's the only one here who got done wrong. Hargrove grew his hair out long and still puts on these tight fucking shirts, and. Steve's eyes hurt from not blinking, from the sudden anger he should have been feeling to begin with. And he's not done, not nearly, but.

All at once, Hargrove's shoulders loosen and he swallows heavily. He avoids Steve's eye when he proceeds to say, "I was an asshole back then, and this so did not help. It's not an excuse, I swear. It was so fucking confusing, all of it, you don't even know." He swallows against nothing again. "I wanted to beat your face in and take you down a peg, but then I wanted to, like, suck on your tongue and, just—jerk you off in the locker room after practice." He scoffs too loudly, but he gives Steve a long, measured look for only an instant before looking away again to blink rapidly to the side. Steve feels heat prickling under his jaw, crawling down his neck, heating up his chest.

Thank fucking God they're not in fucking public, what the fuck.

So. Steve's definitely been missing something. Like, a lot. He deflates all at once, all the air in his lungs leaving him, and his anger with it.

"I can go," Hargrove says. It's a plain out. He's even looking Steve in the eyes now, a genuine offer.

"No. That's. No. It's fine. That's fine." Steve quints, then instantly feels his eyes go all big and round at his own words, a blush like a sunburn everywhere now.

"OK?" Confused. Steve is, too.

It feels wrong to leave it hanging like that.

"I mean. You never— I never knew. Like, at all." It's the best he can do right this moment.

It might be enough. Hargrove laughs quietly. It almost sounds like there's something funny about to come out of his mouth. "Max sort of figured it out. I was always so sure some of the jerks she used to hang out with had, too. Or she'd told them, I don't know. Or maybe not, and I was just a paranoid son of a bitch."

Steve has nothing to say to that.

Hargrove's not done yet. He says, looking into whatever's left of his lukewarm coffee, "She'd told me once, Max, that I should just go for it. I left her to skate home for an entire week for that." He huffs. "Kids are dumb," he adds. _Not these kids_ , Steve wants to point out. But that's like admitting there's something there that's true.

This is a bad idea.

This is the worst idea.

Not just the worst idea Steve's ever had. Oh, no, no, _no_. This is the worst idea in the history of the universe. He's cold all over suddenly, heart beating wildly, limbs numb. His body isn't right.

With too many thoughts battling each other in his head, he decides to reach out. Tentatively. Enough for his fingers to hover gracelessly above Hargrove's mug. It's no longer steaming he observes vaguely. Steve has clearly zero clue what he's doing here exactly.

Hargrove notices and blinks, confused. And Steve says, "You should've," before he leans right back self-consciously. Feels his face going back to hot in the span of an instant.

But Hargrove smiles. He doesn't laugh. He sips at the shitty coffee Steve made him. Lowers his empty mug. "Yeah?" His lips curl around the word.

"Yeah." Steve has to lick his own.

Steve's eyes shift from one side to the other. He frowns. His brain has some hang-ups, he's fully aware, probably way too many. "Is this... flirting? Are you flirting with me?" It should be vaguely horrifying if it's true, and he says it accusingly, but like he's daring Hargrove to admit it.

Clearly without thinking it through, Hargrove easily replies, "Yes."

Not quite knowing what he expected, Steve's eyes flit about the space anxiously, landing on the room divider standing upright way on the other side of his place. He might have bought it second-hand, but it's sturdy and unobtrusive and a bit of an affectation. It also effectively shields his bedroom—mostly consisting of his bed, neatly made that morning—from view.

Blood rushes in every direction so fast his vision swims for a moment there. Because Billy Hargrove in his bedroom is not a thought he's much had reason to entertain until now.

He grabs his half-finished coffee from the table so abruptly the bottom clacks much too loudly against the table's surface. "There's more, uh, coffee. There's more coffee. You know. If you want it." He doesn't wait for Hargrove to answer. Just gets up to circle the couch and head back into the kitchen, hands shaking on his own mug, which is when he realises Hargrove's still got his own and Steve has to bring him a new one rather than refill it like a normal person.

"Sure," he hears from behind him. It's unclear from Hargrove's tone whether Steve's done a good job of coming off like a totally deranged person yet.

He turns to perhaps apologise for being a big weirdo, or maybe go retrieve Hargrove's mug, but he doesn't get a chance to do either as Hargrove's getting up already to join him by the kitchen counters.

Then his empty mug hits the counter alongside Steve's own discarded one, and Hargrove's warm, dry palm is in Steve's hair, and they're sharing breath, Steve's quick and harsh, as if he's been running around the block. His heart feels like it's about to arrow right out of his chest.

"Can I?" Hargrove asks. His eyes are very blue from up close. His breath is warm and a little bitter from the coffee. A bit acidic. Steve swallows and blinks too much and too quickly like a bit of a moron.

"Can you what?" he asks, like an even bigger moron.

Hargrove's eyes narrow as he stares at Steve's face, gaze shifting from one eye to the other.

"I meant what I said. Not much has changed since high school. Not for me."

Steve's suddenly shaken. Limbs trembly. Like it's backwash from relentless ground and pound sparring on blacktop, Steve miles away from getting the upper hand. Familiar adrenaline spiking his blood rotten inside his veins and making him a little sick to his stomach. But only for the time it takes to hear and process Hargrove's words. He's quietly thankful for the fingers in his hair, as if they're the only thing holding him upright. A lifeline for his quickly spiraling existence.

He shifts fruitlessly where he stands one moment, only to clear his throat awkwardly the next. The bridge of his nose burns with what's bound to be a cherry-red blush, splotchy and ultimately useless to hide in the confines of his own half-kitchen. He's been alternating hot and cold since they first set foot inside. Nothing new to see here, folks, except now they're up close and personal.

The fingers tighten minutely. Steve keens embarrassingly all at once, and any and all words seem trapped in his throat. His blood is pumping there, veins and arteries probably standing out starkly. He's not... desperate. He's not... that. He's _not_. He's not, but it's impossible to convince himself right now. Hargrove lingering in his space, eyeing him consideringly; that, in and of itself, has him gasping helplessly for air.

Before he can think better of it, or think _at all_ , he lets out a breathy sound. It escapes into the quiet of his living room slash kitchen slash whatever. Everything stops for a long moment, before time efficiently resumes, as it always does when he least wants it to for wanting it too much.

"Billy," he groans. Just like that. Too much once more. He's said too much. Because this isn't a name he's ever really said, not like this. They never fucked in high school. They were never _anything_ in high school. But that's not quite true, is it?

Neither acknowledges he's spoken. Hargrove doesn't respond and Steve has nothing to add. What are they even doing?

"It's just— Huh." Hargrove's pupils are too big. Steve can see himself in them. His arms are limply hanging by his sides. "It just occurred to me," Hargrove continues, as if they're having a perfectly nice conversation, "I didn't. I haven't kissed you."

"We haven't," Steve agrees. He's very aware of the rising and falling of his chest with each thready breath. Equally aware of every absurd word coming out of both of their mouths leading them to the same outcome.

"May I?" What is this overly polite bullshit, Steve kind of wants to know, but he's too afraid to ask all of a sudden, afraid he might find out Hargrove's changed in ways Steve hasn't. He swallows hard, thinking of words he might say, but.

But then they don't talk. They just kiss. They _fucking kiss_.

Hargrove's a pill. He tips Steve's chin up with the hand not currently buried in his hair to touch their lips together _just so_. It's easy. Just leans into Steve's space for the second it takes to kiss him. Soft and easy, like his grin when asking how Steve's been after all these years. Leans back out to glance back and forth between Steve's wide eyes before pressing his lips to the corner of Steve's mouth. Barely kissing him at all. Steve's eyes flutter shut on a gasp.

"Sorry," he finally says. Steve's eyes snap open to watch him back off completely from Steve's person. His scalp tingles, as do his lips.

In a sort of slow motion of the mind, it occurs to Steve he hasn't said anything yet. Anything about Billy Hargrove kissing him. No reaction. Speaking doesn't seem urgent when kissing is soft and easy.

It only takes three steps to catch up to him. It's not a big place, for which Steve's suddenly and unexpectedly thankful for once. This time it's Hargrove's eyes which widen in surprise.

Steve presses into him and kisses him, sweetly and maybe a little trembly, lips parting on a sigh. His hands come up to curl around his neck, his shoulders. When Hargrove touches his tongue to his it gets him sweating and kind of aching all through his body. Hargrove's the one who blinks his eyes shut first. After that, Steve can't find a reason to keep his open. Not when Hargrove sucks on his tongue, which has him moaning rather loudly. Not when Hargrove's hands go to his waist to clutch at him almost desperately.

Without separating they manage to make their way across Steve's apartment, feet lightly bumping into the other's in their eagerness, back where his sort-of bedroom resides, Steve backing them into the side of his bed, the backs of Hargrove's knees first before he sits them down, crumbling shortly across Steve's bed sheets with Steve himself crumbling on him, into him. An unsubtle beeline to the first available horizontal surface, as if this has been the plan all along. Maybe it has.

Steve's not sure if he expected Hargrove to play coy, but he's the very opposite, this off-putting sort of earnest, Steve shuddering beneath him when Billy pushes and pulls at him to roll him onto his back, the kiss never breaking, his mouth never leaving his.

He _could_ clumsily grasp one of Billy's big palms and press it to the front of his pants, against his dick to have him feel it chubbing up because of his kisses and the suggestion of more. But he'd rather enjoy as much of Billy as he's gonna get while he still can.

Making out turns Steve on too much, apparently. He's afraid he might drool into Billy's mouth, choke him with his spit, so Steve prefers to choke himself instead.

Flipping them around is easy, as is pulling at Billy's waistband until he chucks his jeans and underwear over the side of the bed. Steve's unsurprised he's long and fat having shared after-practice showers with him too many times not to peek, not to make assumptions he now knows are true. He's already hard and wet at the tip, eager, and Steve can't wait, crawls down his torso as if hypnotised. He cups his fingers around the base of Billy's cock, thumbs at his balls with his other hand. He mouths at the head like a tease for about a second before getting it between his lips, having it poke at the roof of his mouth. He groans around it, turns it into a hum when he hears Billy gasp above him. He doesn't know when he closed his eyes, but it's better like this, he feels it more. He sucks for whatever he's worth for so long it might be hours or days, even though it can't possibly be that long. He's in a daze.

At one point words do penetrate the haze in his head. Steve almost doesn't want them to.

"OK, but. I'm gonna fucking come if you keep doing that, baby. Just." It's a bit much, a little too intense these words he lets out to hang in the air around them. Steve wants to bask in them, in this feeling. Swallows around Billy's cockhead, shudders when he feels all that muscle tense and tremble beneath him. If his mouth were empty he'd be panting wetly at the thought of Billy Hargrove's dick in his mouth.

He gives another suck, another swallow, pulls off slowly, dragging his tongue underneath the head before letting go completely. Billy shudders violently. Steve immediately misses the weight of him pushing against his soft insides.

"What do you wanna do?" he pants out. He doesn't want to say, _Anything is on the table. Ask me. Just ask me._

"I just wanna touch you. OK? Just. Get up here, Jesus."

With little grace Steve crawls up from between Billy's thighs, up his torso, to hover above him, boxing him in with his arms. Billy blinks lazily up at him, pink tongue playing at the corner of his mouth.

The sound of Steve's zipper being carefully pulled down shouldn't be as loud as it is. Their ragged pants should be swallowing the sound whole. He allows Billy to drag his jeans and underwear down and off, then to move him around so his back is pressed to Billy's chest on their sides. They haven't taken their shirts off in all of this. An almost hysterical bubble of laughter threatens to erupt from somewhere deep inside him at the very notion, but Steve stops it before it can come out and ruin this completely, the last straw. One of Billy's palms steadies him lightly above his hip bone while the other guides his cock between Steve's tights before moving to his waist, the same steadying touch as before when he held him up by his hair in his kitchen.

He knows this trick. He tightens around him, almost instinctively, and gets a satisfyingly loud moan in return. Steve's saliva slicks the way, and Billy's pre-come does the rest.

It starts out slow. It doesn't stay that way for long.

Idly, as Billy wetly pants into his ear, Steve thinks that if he gets the chance, if this doesn't fizzle out before then, that he wants to push his cock inside to the hilt and fill Billy up. All his thoughts gravitate towards this one notion, this one thing he wants, because right now Billy is all he wants to think about. It shouldn't be this easy for Billy Hargrove to squirm and pant his way under Steve's skin. But it is. He thrusts harshly and moans desperately and mutters _baby_ right into Steve's ear, as if he needs to say it as much as Steve needs to hear it, and the mess he's making between Steve's thighs and across his aching balls is like nothing he's felt before. Even though he's been here before with other guys, guys he's had nothing like the baggage he has with Billy. Their shared past in a town which now seems unreal. Irrationally, for an instant, he feels at ease with the thought.

Without his noticing straight away, his hand works his way to his dick. He closes his eyes tightly, wants to hide or pretend, but what would even be the point, so he doesn't, merely hopes for the best.

The palm above his hip bone squeezes at him once, twice. Oddly calming in itself. Billy's other hand tangles with his around his cock as he starts jerking Steve off. In contrast with every single other way he's touching him, this is quick, ragged and rough. Frantic strokes that he feels at the back of his _throat_ , somehow, muscles everywhere clenching, tightening around Billy's cock, who moans weakly in return. Steve, head craned oddly into the side of his neck, swears softly in his ear. He wants to laugh and cry all at the same time. Instead, he comes messily all up his front, just like that, come across his shirt and by his chin. A couple of thrusts, and Billy's own come joins the mess between his legs.

They're both panting. Steve's heart is in overdrive. _This_ is too much. Truly the final straw.

But Billy's lips are there, pressing at the back of his neck, breaths tickling the short hairs and making him tremble pathetically in his arms. It's just enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this takes place in Boystown, only it wasn't known as that back in 1989. Historical accuracy! *dies* Wanted to call it Boystown so badly.
> 
> My headcanon for this story is that Billy studied English at Berkeley (Cali, yo!) before heading out for graduate work at UChicago. While I firmly believe Billy is canonically a junior during S2, as he's born in 1967, and that's my usual way of writing him, I don't actually know whether it's been confirmed either way. So I'm taking some liberties here and implying he was either born right at the start of the year and enrolled early, hence he and Steve graduate high school at the same time FOR PLOT REASONS STICK WITH ME, or he graduated early because he's S M A R T. IDK, I want Billy to be about to move to Chicago for graduate school, therefore this is what we're doing here.
> 
> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


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